


Listening In

by ninamalfoy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Oneshot, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:05:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamalfoy/pseuds/ninamalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Well, it's really nothing special. I mean, who am I? No one you'd give a minute of your precious time to. Look at me! ... You insist? Well... do I get compensation for that? I'd love some booze, you know..."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Listening In

**Author's Note:**

> First published on LJ on December 1st, 2005.
> 
> Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.

I'm a bum. A no-good white thrash person, someone you'd kick in the balls. Stinky, filthy and haven't bathed in ages. The showers in the missionary don't work half the time and you have to fear for your stuff get stolen, and really, everything smells. Everyone. But I'm not here to tell you my life story – it's just pathetic, really, a little man's life – but don't fear. It's just about a little something else. And I'm just here onstage, to be the one telling it, and then I'm off. Back into my daily grudge.

So there I am, scrounging around in one of Munich's better-off city quarters, hoping to get some cents from rich people who want to shoo me off with bribes (which suits me just fine), and always on the look-out for deposit bottles that I can drop off at the gas stops, money easily earned. At first the looks from the passers-by weren't too pleasant, but with time you just shrug them off, like dust.

And now I'm waiting for the next subway home, with my loot of three beer bottles and two Cokes, and about four Euros in coins; I'll buy me some hard stuff – schnapps, probably - in the next supermarket; the one on the corner next to the missionary is good, the cashiers are used to bums. The subway arrives; only a few people seated, and I go and sit down farthest from them. The neon lights are, as always, too glaring and no one looks good. Pasty skin on the blonde down there, the wrinkles around the face of the old miss too harsh and deep, the black guy looking like a low-down dealer although I'm sure he's a student. Biochem, or something.

At the next stop, a guy gets in. Good clothes, I see that in an instant. Baseball cap drawn low, you can't make out his face. Stubble, but these days it's a fashion statement instead of 'Gee, darling, forgot my razor…', and I would just disregard him weren't it for the fact that he's shaking. Badly.

I wonder if he's on drugs; these days you really can't tell who's a user. It's not just the poor, wrecked ones. The higher-ups, the well-doers, they take it, too. Why not? It's a great stress relief. And I'd be lying if I wouldn't admit that I don't say no to a little bit of whatever I come across. But no H, I've seen too many people get wasted by that.

Anyway, it's not his whole body that's shaking; it's just his hands, and it's just me who can see it. And then a faint ringing can be heard and the guy gets out his cell, and when he puts it to his ear, he answers it.

"Yeah?"

I've got good hearing; was able to distinguish between birds only by their call. Nowadays, I could still do it, yes, but there aren't really that many birds to be found in the middle of busy Munich. I don't hear the reply, but it's a man, too. That he's speaking to. And then the guy nods, stupid thing to do, he can't see you, and he smiles. It's a beautiful smile; he could be a model or someone.

"I miss you," and I can hear that this is serious. Whatever this is that these two guys have going on between them. It's something pretty good, and something really intense – I mean, he was shaking. Love can be a drug sometimes, yes.

He's listening to the other guy, and I listen, too. It's a pleasant voice, deep and with a burr. It's a pity I'm not sitting any closer, but like this, it's okay, too. I wouldn't want to intrude too much. The smile's still there; a bit dimmed down, but still beautiful.

Now, get me straight: I've got no hankering for men. I'm all for the women, the bigger the boobs, the better. To drown in them. But, well, everyone to his or her tastes – I'm certainly not one to judge. Not after all the shit I pulled. This guy, though, I could see why anyone'd fall for him, men and women either – he must get his fair share of come-ons, I think – and I'm curious. The other man must've got some pretty special qualities himself.

"No, that's okay. I'll see you later, then. We'll still have training." And then he chuckles. I can hear a bit of a dialect in this guy's voice – something Eastern German. Almost Saxonian. "Good luck in the next match; do be sure to not get yellowcarded again."

I can hear the indignant reply of the other guy, a 'Hey!', and this guy grins. He sure does know how to push buttons. And yellow-carded – they probably are footballers, playing for some little local club. Regional league, probably. But not together; why wouldn't they? Or is he out with an injury? He does seem okay to me. The other guy is now talking, at length. The guy just hums at intervals, or emits a low "_ja_". He looks more relaxed now, too. So they're also good friends; not just fuck-buddies.

I've got to get off at the next station, and apparently he does, too, because he gets up and he's quite tall, too; about a head taller than me – I know, I'm almost a midget, shut up – and then he says, "Yeah, me too. I'm looking forward to see you again, too. Can't wait," and his voice has taken on an almost velvet-y quality, "and take care of yourself, Torsten." He waits for the reply, and then shuts the cell shut.

Torsten. Or Thorsten, with a h. Lucky guy. I look down at his hands, and indeed, there's a ring. Married? To him? Or – to a sweet nice wife, who doesn't know about her husband's paramour? That's the cynic in me, never shutting up. Well, nowadays everything's possible, and when the doors open, I shuffle out after him, clutching my bags to myself, and we part ways at the exit – he goes to the left, I go to the right. That's it.

No, wait, there's more.

Back at my usual place in the missionary; the corner bed, old Gerd on the other side, an ex-sailor, who's always quiet, but get him a good bottle of rum and he'll tell you the meanest horror stories which always revolve around the sea. Giant octopi, mermaids, the Bermuda triangle, whatever. Always with lots of big-busted women in them. Great storyteller. I grunt, and he grunts. We're men of few words when we're sober.

He's got a Bild, and is looking through it. "Can I have the sports part?" I ask, it's what I like best. I'm a fan of ice hockey; it goes back a long time. He shoves it over to me with a nod. It's battered a fair bit, ripped on one side, but still readable. Why waste 60 cents on a new one when you can find old ones everywhere?

And that's where I see the guy again. He's not stubbled, not with a baseball cap, but I'd recognize him nevertheless. I'm not that interested in soccer; it always was a sissies' sport to me, with all this diving and crying and getting carded and such. Ice hockey is so much more down-to-earth. More honest. Not so much money flying around. And the Kölner Haie aren't too bad this season; I'm saving up for a scarf of them. Maybe a silly thing, but then, a man has to get his pleasures where he can. Anyway, this guy is in the sports part, all splashed out on a page, and it's something about contracts and such. Bayern Munich player, and a pretty important one, too.

Well, who'd have thought it. I show the page to Gerd. "I saw him in the subway today."

He raises his eyebrows. "Him? Slumming, was he?"

I shrug. "I don't know. He was calling someone."

Calling someone. I didn't lie, but I also didn't say the truth. Gerd just nods and goes back to reading, and I stare down at his picture. White gleaming teeth, smiling, dark curls. There's a pic of him and his girlfriend, and a kid. Theirs, I guess.

But he was calling a man he's in love with. Someone he wants to be with. And, apparently, can't. I guess life is always a bitch, even if you're rich and successful and handsome. It always finds a way to fuck you over.

I guess Michael Ballack isn't really one to envy – after all.

...

Thanks for coming - and listening.

*** fin ***


End file.
